Chapter 15 - The Body at the MarinaThe dead man wasn't anyone I knew.
His name was Victor Salazar.
Forty-one.
Private security contractor.
Former police officer.
No known connection to me.
That was the good news.
The bad news was everything else.
A kitchen knife had been found near the body.
My fingerprints were on the handle.
My initials had been engraved into the blade.
It belonged to a six-piece chef's set from my old condo.
A wedding gift.
One Preston had apparently taken when he left.
The symbolism was almost insulting.
Dinner.
Kitchen.
Marriage.
Violence.
He wasn't merely framing me.
He was writing a story.
Detective Torres made something very clear.
“You're not under arrest.”
“Yet.”
“Claire.”
“I'm being realistic.”
“The forensic evidence is too convenient.”
“That hasn't stopped public opinion.”
“This isn't public opinion.”
She was right.
Actual investigation required more than dramatic clues.
Time of death placed Victor's murder between 8:00 and 10:00 PM the previous night.
At that exact time, I had been inside corporate headquarters surrounded by executives, security staff, and surveillance cameras.
My alibi was nearly impossible to challenge.
So why frame me for a murder I couldn't have committed?
Julian answered.
“Maybe he wasn't trying to frame you for the murder.”
“Then why my knife?”
“To connect you to Victor.”
That made more sense.
Police searched Victor's records.
Three months earlier, he'd been paid $18,000 by a consulting company linked to Rebecca.
His assignment?
Surveillance.
Me.
Victor had taken the balcony photographs.
Followed my car.
Mapped my routine.
But recently, according to his girlfriend, he wanted out.
“He told me the guy hiring them was crazy,” she said.
“The guy?”
“Some Preston.”
Victor had threatened to go to police.
Preston killed a witness.
That was the working theory.
Except we still needed proof.
Rebecca provided it.
When investigators told her Victor was dead, she began shaking.
“Preston said Victor was becoming a problem.”
“When?”
“Four days ago.”
“What exactly did he say?”
Rebecca closed her eyes.
“He said problems don't testify.”
The murder changed everything.
Until then, Preston was a stalker.
Fraudster.
Extortionist.
Abuser.
Now police believed he was willing to kill.
Marcus wanted me taken somewhere outside the country.
I refused.
“Running makes no sense.”
“It makes sense if someone is trying to murder you.”
“He hasn't tried to kill me.”
Marcus stared.
“You cannot possibly be serious.”
“Preston doesn't want me dead.”
“How is that comforting?”
“It isn't. But it matters.”
I understood him now.
He needed me alive because he needed something from me that death couldn't provide.
Submission.
Acknowledgment.
Fear.
He wanted to see me surrender.
That need made him predictable.
Natalie agreed.
“He never wanted to destroy the women entirely,” she told Torres. “He wanted them to believe they couldn't survive without him.”
The thought gave me an idea.
“What happens if he believes I finally can't?”
Victoria immediately said, “No.”
“You don't even know what I'm suggesting.”
“I've known you long enough.”
The plan was dangerous.
Not physically reckless.
Psychologically convincing.
We would create the appearance that I was breaking.
Corporate board announces my temporary resignation.
Media reports that federal investigators are reviewing my conduct.
Marcus publicly leaves the city after an argument with me.
Victoria withdraws from representation.
My security visibly decreases.
None of it real.
All of it designed to tell Preston exactly what he wanted to hear.
Claire is alone.
Claire is losing.
Claire is ready.
For forty-eight hours, nothing happened.
Then I received an email.
No subject.
One line.
Now we can talk like husband and wife.
My hands shook with anger.
I replied.
What do you want?
Five minutes.
An apology.
I typed:
For what?
His response came instantly.
For humiliating me.
There it was.
Not money.
Not freedom.
Humiliation.
His true wound.
I wrote:
If I apologize, does this stop?
Ten minutes passed.
Then:
In person.
Police traced the email through multiple relays.
No location.
I typed:
Tell me where.
His response:
You aren't ready yet.
I almost laughed.
He wanted theater.
So I gave him more.
The next morning, a carefully staged photograph appeared online showing me leaving corporate headquarters looking exhausted.
By noon, an anonymous source reported that I might lose my position permanently.
By three, Preston contacted me.
Tomorrow. Noon. St. Matthew's.
I knew the place.
A small church outside the city.
Closed for renovation.
Remote.
No Sunday services.
No staff.
Torres immediately began planning surveillance.
But I understood something.
“He won't be there.”
Marcus frowned.
“Why not?”
“He's tested every police response.”
“So what do we do?”
“We make him think I went.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“I go.”
The room exploded.
Marcus.
Victoria.
Torres.
Julian.
Everyone talking.
I waited.
Then I explained.
“Preston detects decoys because he's watching our response patterns. If I don't physically go, he won't reveal himself.”
Torres crossed her arms.
“We are not using you as unsecured bait.”
“I didn't say unsecured.”
In the end, they agreed under conditions.
Tracking device.
Audio transmitter.
Multiple tactical teams.
Drones held outside visual range.
No weapon on me except legally permitted defensive equipment.
No deviation.
No heroics.
I arrived at St. Matthew's at 11:58.
The church doors were unlocked.
Inside, dust floated through shafts of sunlight.
Rows of empty pews.
Scaffolding.
Plastic coverings.
No Preston.
At the altar sat a wooden box.
My name written across it.
“Don't touch it,” Torres whispered through my earpiece.
I stopped.
Then speakers hidden somewhere in the church came alive.
Preston's voice echoed through the sanctuary.
“Hello, Claire.”
Every muscle in my body tightened.
“You look tired.”
I looked around.
“Where are you?”
“Close.”
“Come out.”
He laughed softly.
“You still think you're giving orders.”
I remained silent.
Then he said:
“I watched your interview.”
“Congratulations.”
“I watched you lose your job.”
“That what you wanted?”
“No.”
“What do you want?”
A pause.
“I want you to admit you should've listened to me.”
My stomach turned.
“That's all?”
“Say it.”
Behind the altar, something clicked.
A screen illuminated.
Live video.
Marcus.
Sitting in a chair.
Hands restrained.
Blood on his forehead.
My heart stopped.
May you like
Preston whispered through the speakers:
“Now you're ready.”
